It was June. Sterling Finny was sitting in the smoking-car of a Central Illinois chu-chu train reading all about culture. He read about the young man in the motor car on his way home from a party, who had never once looked into Elbert Hubbard's scrap-book; so that when the subject of the burrowing habits of piddocks came up, he was practically mute. As he gazed on the anguished face of this big stiff, Sterling stirred uneasily. Could such a thing ever happen to him, Sterling Finny? He glanced uneasily around.

At his side sat Phineas J. Mott, the President of the Second National Bank of Herrin, Illinois. Here was Sterling's chance. If he could engage President Mott in some sort of enlightening conversation, he, Sterling Finny, might well win the great man's favor and obtain a position in Mr. Mott's bank.